The God Eater
by Insomniac Owl
Summary: That winter, Itachi became a god. It was just a pity he'd had to die as well. Kimimaro/Itachi


**The God Eater**

_by Insomniac Owl_

-

It was not a conscious decision, though he lies about that to make peace with himself. He lies about a lot of things, and that's just how it is; he can't quite help it. Sometimes he'll catch himself looking in the mirror, and he will find that a suspicious gleam has entered his eyes - the roles have been reversed, and he is the hunted.

It hasn't happened yet, but he knows that in time guilt will tear him apart. Fitting into every crevice of his body, it will seep through to his brain and his heart and every other vital organ, and he will fall apart. Therapy will do nothing; he go mad, eventually.

There is only the wait.

**x**

Looking back on those winter months, he is unable to pinpoint the exact date it happened. He finds that a little unbelievable because, even now, half a year afterward, it remains the most important event in his life, and though he can say it was gradual - because falling in love usually is - he knows there was a time where he could deny it no longer. He is certain the day was absolutely, terribly awful, because it seems the best days of his life are always tinged with tragedy.

When he turned eighteen, he came home to find that most of his family had been killed in their sleep when the stove began leaking gas; the others had been run over by cars or shot in a convenience store robbery, and he remembers thinking, as he leaned against his bedroom wall, how horrible it all was. He then remembers how he'd sunk to the floor, laughing madly, and how the police had come in asking if he was alright, already convinced he wasn't.

Unlike that event - seen in a quick succession of movements, a whole film but with shots missing - most of that winter comes in a flurry of snow and stripped cherry trees. But above all, Kimimaro remembers graceful movements and long black hair, and elegant fingers curled around a teacup.

**x**

The assignment came with a handful of junk mail - magazines, coupons, that sort of thing - which Kimimaro dropped in the trash on his way to the table. He had received less information than usual, nothing more than a name where usually he found an address and phone number. For the most part this was irrelevant - both could be found in one of the nine telephone books he kept - but it was unusual and made him curious.

Uchiha.

Kimimaro knew the name, though he could not say where he had first heard it. Like everyone else, however, he knew the attached story almost by heart; it had been of great interest to everyone when, nearly six years ago, the entire family had been found massacred in their home. No, no, that wasn't entirely right; two brothers had survived. Itachi and Sasuke. It had been all anyone talked about for months, and inevitably, rumors began to fly. Eventually, many came to believe the older brother had done it. Though the hate had died down somewhat over the years, his name was still spoken with the weight of a curse word, though there was sadness in their voices as well for a boy they believed to have gone so wrong.

It was little wonder then that Itachi - whose name was written on Kimimaro's mail - kept so close a watch on his personal information. Flipping through Konoha's phonebook, Kimimaro found Itachi's telephone number and address both unlisted, though the younger brother's was clearly marked just below it. Sasuke, the innocent victim, had escaped any sort of stigma at all; Kimimaro had even heard his name around town recently because he'd had won some sort of scholarship for soccer; though he was only sixteen he was already in his senior year, top of his class, in line for valedictorian and so on.

Itachi, Kimimaro heard, had graduated at thirteen.

Leaving his tea on the counter to steep, he made a call to Kabuto. The man was a government employee, and though requesting help would usually be a dangerous, if not downright suicidal move, Kabuto knew the sort of work he did. He might even approve, though it wasn't safe to assume such things.

There was a click on the other end, and then Kabuto's voice: "Kabuto speaking, how may I help you?" His speech was polite and polished - surprising, really, given how cruel he could be.

"This is Kimimaro," he answered, shifting the phone to hold it against his shoulder. "It's about the usual things."

"Mmhmm. What's the name?"

"Uchiha Itachi."

Kabuto paused - surprised, Kimimaro was sure - but then there came the rapid sound of the man's fingers over a keyboard. He gave the address, then stopped. "Do you need the phone number too?"

Kimimaro shook his head. "No thanks. That should be enough."

"Alright. If you need anything else, don't be afraid to ask. I'm not above a stakeout, you know."

"I know." This had been a topic of some consternation for a time; he knew the sort of work Kimimaro did, and though he would not hesitate to involve himself, Kimimaro was reluctant to do so. He no longer cared about the consequences for himself - he had grown accustomed as most criminals did - but there was enough humanity left that he did not want anyone else involved. It was, in a way, a sort of brotherly love.

"Thanks for the offer, Kabuto," he said. "But no thank you."

He retrieved his tea from the counter, and stood sipping it as he stared at the address he'd scribbled out. This made things easier at least; now there were only days of observation until he knew Itachi's life and personality by heart, until he could give his employer a precise date and time of death.

**x**

Though snow was rare, the weather was cold enough that Kimimaro donned both jacket and scarf before going out, the address Kabuto had given him tucked into his hip pocket along with a small notebook and the stub of a pencil. He walked because there could not be witnesses, and by the time he arrived he'd begun to appreciate the slow burn in his calves.

There was nothing unusual about Itachi's house, but Kimimaro was not surprised. Many other people had done horrible things, and yet when the neighbors were questioned by police, they insisted that the man (or woman) had been very nice, very polite - very average, in other words. Nothing special.

But he already knew Itachi wasn't that.

Though rather unremarkable, the house bore a uncanny resemblance to its owner. Some houses did this, and it was fascinating but a little odd how a person could imprint themselves so indelibly on a living space. Little marks of character scattered about the room; even the air, Kimimaro knew, would have a unique scent; tea, perhaps, and alcohol. A picture had been included with the name - snapped on the sly, Itachi, oblivious, already dressed for work, with his hair in his eyes as he bent to retrieve the morning paper - and he looked like the sort of man who, on occasion, drank vodka from those teacups.

When Itachi arrived, it was in an unobtrusive white car - unremarkable, really, except for the man inside. He got out, walked to the door, and went in. There was absolutely nothing strange or unusual about it, nothing eye-catching at all - yet Kimimaro knew with a half-surprised, hazy realization that his mouth had fallen open.

He walked home, hands shoved deep into his pocket, his mind buzzing unpleasantly. Itachi had been entirely unremarkable, but it was not the normalness that Kimimaro had noticed. It was the little things Itachi hid: the slow grace in his movements, the careless ease, the sharp, intelligent eyes. Kimimaro had known it the instant he saw him, perhaps even before that - because the picture revealed more about Itachi than even he had realized; it showed him unknown, relaxed, and the long lines of his body betrayed something he hadn't known to hide. Itachi Uchiha was nothing like the others in any way at all, and Kimimaro knew it now. It was a sign that, once seen, could not be mistaken or forgotten.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, hands falling slack at his sides. The wind had picked up, teasing the edges of his clothing, his hair, pulling it into his eyes; he didn't make an effort to see clearly; he only stood there, eyes wide with wonder.

He was in love.

Already, there was no denying it.

**x**

Alright, so maybe he lied a little. Maybe he knew the exact moment he fell in love, and that it hadn't been terrible at all. (But maybe that was a lie too.) He went straight home, and though it was only two in the afternoon, he shut himself up in his bedroom and tried to sleep. Ten minutes passed. A half hour. He rose and went into the bathroom, where he pulled at his hair and skin and tried to convince himself that he felt nothing at all, especially not love.

"Oh god," he said to his reflection, which looked desperately back at him, pleading. The boney structure of his thin, pale hands stood out painfully. "Oh god, what am I going to do? This isn't supposed to happen…. You know that, you _know_ that!"

Kimimaro knew.

The words were for show, or conscience, or a desperate attempt to save his soul, but they had already failed. Though he would not admit it for weeks to come, the seed had already been planted, and there in his bathroom - white walls, white porcelain bath, white tiles underfoot - it had burst into sudden and vivid life. He didn't want it. What he wanted - rather desperately, because he knew he didn't want it at all - was to stamp it out, to grind it under his heel so that, when the time came, he could kill without remorse.

It was how he had avoided the guilt all these years; but this was a new situation, and he was unsure how to respond. It couldn't go one as it was, certainly, but he was strangely reluctant to act against it. He pulled at his hair, yes; he slammed his hands against the counter and clenched his teeth, but these were physical movement only, and did nothing to touch his heart.

Twenty minutes later, jaded, he fell into bed. He would not sleep at all that night.

**x**

He was sitting at his kitchen table, sipping a cup of green tea when there was a knock at the door.

Kabuto.

Kimimaro had never seen him before, but the voice was right, and he looked exactly the way Kimimaro had imagined him, only with a pair of silver-rimmed glasses that were in some way disturbing, because it made him seem weak, scholarly. It was funny to imagine this man, with his glasses and his medical textbooks under one arm, condoning murder.

Kabuto introduced himself and asked if he come in, and Kimimaro stood aside, watching those grey eyes slide over the kitchen - clean lines, clean. Kabuto set his textbooks on the table and leaned against it, all too trusting in its support of him.

"Itachi should be dead, Kimimaro," he said eventually. "It's taking a lot longer than it should."

Kimimaro stared at him, uncomprehending. Then it clicked. All the hints, Kabuto's unrestricted access to records and addresses; it made sense that he would belong to the company - whatever that was.

"He's different," Kimimaro said with an easy calmness. "Difficult. You should know; you've seen the pictures, the information, haven't you? I didn't know you worked for them too, though…."

"Yes, for a while now. Well, longer than you at any rate." He pushed his glasses up, running a finger down the spines of his textbooks. Slowly: "He should have been gone by now, Kimimaro. I've been asked to make that very clear to you. Is it?"

"Yes."

"Good." He picked up his books again, briskly, and smiled at Kimimaro. It was a swift and rather disturbing change of expression - one that left Kimimaro feeling as though he'd witnessed some brief but horrifying act of violence, flashed over the screen so fast his conscious brain missed it; his unconscious brain had seen it, however, and it lingered, causing nausea, discomfort, a source-less sense of illness….

"I'll talk to you again soon, I hope. For now I have to go study; I'm taking classes at the university, you see, and finals are coming up…. I don't have much free time anymore!" Kabuto laughed a little, then he was gone out the door, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

Kimimaro retreated to the bathroom again; a small room with one tiny window, it was the darkest room in the house, and this darkness brought anonymity, seclusion, and a sense of comfort. He sat on the rim of the bathtub, bringing his face into his hands. Eyes closed. The world fading from existence in his consciousness: out; in; out again. Maybe, he thought, if he closed his eyes everything would disappear.

But of course it didn't.

**x**

The next morning, ignoring the protests of his logical brain, he took a taxi to Itachi's house and knocked on the door. When it opened, Kimimaro found that he had frozen; he tongue sat leaden in his mouth; his hands hung motionless at his sides. Any words he'd prepared vanished, leaving in their wake dreadful wisps of things he might have said to save the life of this man standing, relaxed, politely inquisitive, in the doorway.

"Yes?"

Itachi's voice was soft, a little distracted. In the background, the blue glow of a television set flickered over the wall. Music and canned laughter.

"I'm sorry," Kimimaro said, feeling suddenly ill. "Sasuke Uchiha doesn't live here, does he?"

Itachi's face didn't change. "No, he doesn't. I'm sorry, you must have the wrong house."

"O-Okay. Thank you."

When the door closed he heard only silence behind it.

**x**

An image of Itachi's face had lodged itself in his mind, as had the still-frame frame of his body as he bent to retrieve the morning paper from the sidewalk. The picture still tucked into his back pocket. Hundreds of other moments, frozen, that Kimimaro promised himself he would never forget.

(It was the sort of love that lived on in stories; unknown, secret, carried out behind closed doors. It was also the sort of love that, because it had never been known, would go unnoted except to Kimimaro, who would carry the memory of it until his death at nineteen. Heart trouble, the doctor would say. That and lung cancer is what killed him - but mostly the heart trouble.)

Fifteen minutes later he threw up in the kitchen sink and scribbled out tomorrow's date and 3:00 pm on a piece of paper, which he dropped into the mailbox.

He stood looking at the box for a long, long time, wishing he could get it back.

**finis**


End file.
